


Power is My Love

by freyjawriter24



Series: Hozier's Good Omens [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 1969, Good Omens fic based on a Hozier song, M/M, Nina Cried Power, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), Pre-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), Pride, Pride Parades, Stonewall Riots, and yes every single song Hozier has ever written is a Good Omens reference, climate strike, so this is what I write now, yes I'm obsessed with both Good Omens and Hozier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-05
Updated: 2019-10-05
Packaged: 2020-12-01 21:03:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20898359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freyjawriter24/pseuds/freyjawriter24
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley have never really been to protests before. They’ve been around them, but not part of them. And certainly not Pride parades. But then the not-Apocalypse happens, and they can do what they like. So they do.Fic inspired by Hozier’s song Nina Cried Power, and also Hozier standing on stage holding a trans pride flag in the air while singing about injustice, because witnessing that moment made me cry and spurred me on to finally write this.





	Power is My Love

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is inspired by Hozier’s brilliant, poignant, empowering song [Nina Cried Power](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j2YgDua2gpk). I highly recommend watching/listening to this before reading this fic, also probably during and after reading this fic, also while on the train, while going to a march, while at home lying on your bed in the dark, while making food, while doing honestly anything because it’s amazing. Go listen to it.

_It’s not the waking, it’s the rising._

\-----

They weren’t in New York at the time. Neither of them were – one was in Soho, burying himself in books and trying very hard not to think too much, the other was on a business trip to southern Africa and also trying very hard not to think too much. In short, the humans thought it up themselves.

Hell tried to give their agent on Earth a commendation, but the demon flatly refused. Can’t be in two places at once, for a start, even with miracles at his disposal. But also, it was such an inherently _good_ thing, how could they possibly think _he_ had anything to do with it? His apparent disgust seemed to convince them both of their error and his loyalty, and so they left him to it for a bit.

Crowley liked riots. Not as much as he should, perhaps. They were interesting, though not always in a good way, and they felt like the sort of thing he _should_ enjoy, being a demon and all. But honestly, most of the time he preferred to watch them from a distance. He wasn’t much of one for participation in that sort of thing.

Riot _songs_ on the other hand – now, that was more his area. He could have taken credit in Hell for political protest as a musical genre, but somehow he never had. It felt too personal to share with his, uh, _colleagues_, and if he never brought it up, they probably wouldn’t ever know the songs were a thing. They were falling fairly firmly behind the times, these days.

But privately, Crowley adored protest songs, and was inordinately proud of them for something he’d never had a hand in making. He played them at top volume in his flat, where no one else could hear, and he often considered putting some sort of music player into the Bentley just so he could listen to them as he roared around London.

He headed to America as soon as he was done with work, of course. He had to see what exactly was going on.

The papers made their way to him as he crossed the Atlantic. The _Daily News_, with its front page coverage. _The New York Times_. The _New York Post_. He read them all and found himself grinning, and subtly pushed his transport forwards faster. He didn’t want to miss this.

It was chaos when he got there – all noise and colour and righteous fury – and he loved it.

People were holding hands in the street, something you hardly saw before. It was still a guarded hand-holding, still only in very limited areas, still only at certain times of day. But they were outside, not hidden away in a dark corner of an illegal bar.

He got there on the Wednesday morning. Crowley would swear (truthfully) that it had nothing to do with him, but that was the day the third riot broke out, as a mob engulfed the offices of _The Village Voice_ for its depiction of the weekend’s events. He kept out of it himself, but there was something laughing riotously inside him wherever he went that day.

This was it. This was the demand for change. This was anger and determination and hope. This was beautiful.

It was a day or two later that he saw the first flash of familiar white-blond curls through the crowd. The angel was talking to a young woman with short hair, uncomfortably dressed in masculine attire, but she looked hopeful as Aziraphale gave his advice in low tones. Crowley waited until the two were finished and the woman had left before making his appearance at the angel’s left shoulder.

“Aziraphale!” he said, forced casual brightness in his voice. “What brings you here at this deviously chaotic time?”

The angel turned at his name, beaming up at Crowley, before his smile faltered for a fraction of a second. He smoothed it away quickly, resuming the expression of pleasure, but that tiny waver felt like a punch to the gut for the demon. He blinked once behind his sunglasses and refused to otherwise react.

“Oh, Crowley! Well, you know, I came to see what I could do to help.”

“Toning down the protests, are we? Too rowdy and sinful for you?”

“_Goodness_, no!” Crowley was slightly taken aback by Aziraphale’s vehemence, but the angel ploughed on. “I’m just here to try to keep anyone from getting _too_ hurt. You know, miracle of health inspiring them to faith, and all that.” He smiled again, weakly, and Crowley felt the edges of his own mouth tug upwards.

“You’re here to help the rioters.”

It wasn’t a question, but Aziraphale answered anyway. “Ah, yes. Yes, it rather seems I am.”

“Heaven sent you?”

“No. I don’t think they know I’m here.”

Crowley raised his eyebrows but said nothing. He decided to change the subject.

“Who was your friend just now?”

“Oh, Cecelia. She’s been having a rough time of it lately, trying to understand everything. I think she’s a little scared by the riots, really, but she’s also – well, to use her word, exhilarated by them. The problem is, you see, she comes out in support of them and she has nowhere to go. Her parents still seem to think... well, you know how some humans can be.”

“So you pointed her in the right direction?”

“To someone who’ll look after her, yes.”

Crowley smiled.

“Shall we get lunch, angel?”

Aziraphale licked his lips with a slight expression of surprise, as if he’d somehow forgotten food existed for a moment. “Oh yes, let’s!”

\-----

_It’s the heat that drives the light,_  
_It’s the fire it ignites_

\-----

There were more protests over the years, each bigger and more powerful. New York and Chicago recognised the anniversary of that first riot at Stonewall, and slowly the rest of the world joined in.

Flags were made by hand, colours sewn together and waved high. They changed, and grew in number, and soon were printed to be shared across the globe. There were new languages created and shared, new bonds formed, new normals demanded. There were protests that became celebrations, parties with an undercurrent of fear and courage and strength.

There were losses. So, so many losses. But there were gains too, and the world became – one tiny step, one touch of hands, one held look, one small kiss at a time – that much brighter and better.

\-----

_And I could cry power..._

\-----

Protests, as a rule, were not really Aziraphale’s thing. Often they were too crowded and noisy, often they were at risk of being too violent, often they were in aid of something that he was supposed to remain neutral on, to not encourage too far one way or the other. He looked on, though, and tried to protect those he could as they took to the streets.

But one day, in the latter days of a particularly eventful summer, he was set free. He was suddenly loosed on the world as a free agent, with no pale-suited authority to dictate his actions and inactions any longer. He could do as he liked.

And so it was that the following month, amid the crowds of children that were demanding their voices be heard, Aziraphale took Crowley’s hand and the two of them walked the streets to save the planet they had just saved all over again. The Climate Strike was the first protest either of them had ever actually marched in, and they were euphoric.

It wasn’t until the following year that they got the chance to emulate that first protest, though.

Aziraphale had been planning and fretting for months in advance, trying to decide what to wear, what to do, what to say. Crowley calmed him as best he could, but the nervousness was not the sort that could be cured by logic. It had to be borne out, with the comfort of cocoa and cuddles and good books. That did help, a little.

The day came, and the angel was still fussing around in front of a hastily-miracled mirror. He hadn’t really cared much about his appearance before – well, not since the 18th century, at least – but now it seemed important, and he felt woefully inadequate.

When the bell of the locked shop door rang, he didn’t even look up, still too focused on the look of the same waistcoat he’d been wearing for well over a century by now. So he was surprised when the demon dangled a small parcel over his left shoulder.

He took it, shooting a questioning look at Crowley’s uncovered yellow eyes in the mirror, and upon receiving no answer, tore into the package.

Under the paper was a box, and in the box was a bow tie. The most wonderful, hideous, beautiful, terrible, gorgeous monstrosity that Aziraphale had ever laid eyes on. He span around to face the demon behind him.

“Oh, _Crowley_.”

He smiled softly at the angel’s pure joy, and reached forward gently to loosen the tie already in place. In its stead, he took the new one from the box and carefully tied it into a neat knot.

Crowley squeezed his angel’s shoulders and span him back round to face the mirror again. Looking back at them were the two happiest celestial beings in the universe. One was leaning over the shoulder of the other, bony arms curled around him like a snake, yellow eyes shining with affection. The other was beaming brighter than the sun, eyes misting with unshed tears, wearing a bow tie made of eye-wateringly bright rainbow-coloured tartan.

“I love it.”

“I know you do.”

“I love you."

“I know that, too.” He smiled, and squeezed the hug tighter. “I love you too, angel.”

London Pride had always been a beautiful sight to behold. Aziraphale had watched it every year, from a distance, catching glimpses of rainbows, drinking in the sounds of chants and laughter, but never taking part.

This time, however, he was there. And the feeling that filled him from bottom to top was a kind of indescribable happiness that his inarticulate attempt to express resulted in Crowley leaning down to whisper in his ear the simple, beautiful word that made it all make sense.

_Ineffable._

\-----

_It’s not the song, it is the singing._

\-----

They marched, and they chanted, and they loved it.

They didn’t have to hide anymore. In many more ways than one.

Aziraphale hung a rainbow flag up on one wall of the bookshop. Crowley bought a black denim jacket and set about acquiring protest patches and positivity badges to add to it. They travelled the country, and then the world, to as many Pride parades as possible, every year. They held hands in the street, and smiled openly at each other, no longer too scared to do anything more than glance sideways at the other’s beautiful profile.

They sang protest songs together, and reminisced and laughed and cried.

And they were together. That was the most important thing.

They were together, and they were ineffably happy.

\-----

_Power is my love when my love reaches to me._

**Author's Note:**

> Lyrics in italics are all from Nina Cried Power. If you haven’t already (and honestly, even if you have), I would _highly_ recommend reading the [genius lyrics](https://genius.com/Hozier-nina-cried-power-lyrics) notes for this song because [they’re](https://genius.com/15347596) [so](https://genius.com/15369202) [god](https://genius.com/16730501) [damn](https://genius.com/15332146) [excellently ](https://genius.com/15361119)[well](https://genius.com/15479280) [put](https://genius.com/15334575) [together](https://genius.com/15374270). (Sorry not sorry for all the links there, they’re all in the first link really but I just wanted to emphasise how important these descriptions are for understanding the brilliance and power of this song.)
> 
> Hope you enjoyed my take on this song! More are on their way...


End file.
